Horror Story Collection
by Oh Porings
Summary: The results of the horror story contest held at the Oh Porings! forum.
1. Home

These are the results of the horror story contest at the Oh Porings! forum. The first place winner was Sophia (aka Sachre). The original formats have been mutilated by FFnet :3

-Tellie

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**Home by Sophia (Sachre)**

Corosa gropes his way through the darkness of the hallway, footsteps clumsy with the exhaustion of sleepiness. He does not walk slowly or carefully or silently. There is no reason to. He is the only one in the entire house. Once upon a time it was also home to three children and a wife, but they are all gone now. He comes home to peace and quiet rather than wailing and laughter and '_Home now, darling?'_

In the dark, his foot catches on something and he stumbles, nearly falling. Then he continues on his way, staying awake just long enough to collapse onto his bed.

He gets up the next morning and is relieved when he comes to the realization that there is no need to go through the bother of changing his clothes, as he had not changed the night before and had opted to fall asleep in his clothes instead. He swings himself out of bed, pushes the door open with a touch, gets himself through his early morning routine, and then makes the daily trip down the hallway to meet the rest of his day. There is a crack in the floorboards; he makes a note to get someone to fix it before it starts widening. The more it widens the more time repair crews will be puttering around in his house, and if there is anything Corosa hates more than dealing with obstinate idiots during a long day's work it is dealing with obstinate idiots in _after _a long day's work.

Just before starting his quick breakfast he starts hearing indistinct noises from outside, and leans out of the window to take a look. The noises continue, but he sees nothing. Must be coming from the other side, he thinks, closing the window. His only neighbors are proud owners of a gaggle of too-perky too-cheerful children whom have no trouble waking themselves and waking others at the crack of dawn.

He finishes eating and heads back to his room, realizing he has left his guns there. The crack in the floor trips him up; ah, that must have been what got him last night. He retrieves his weapons and walks back down the hall again without a hitch.

The day passes by and as always, he returns home in the evening, passing by the neighbor's empty house. Empty? He pauses and notes that the windows are broken, and it looks like the insides of the house are on their way to collecting thick layers of dust. Despite the lack of a 'for sale' sign, it is obvious that the place has not been touched in a long, long while. Strange. When did his neighbors leave? He has never taken much notice of them, though they have tried to be friendly; he knows their intentions have been kind but Corosa does not have time in his life for them, and especially not for their altogether too bubbly children. And he _has_ been exceedingly busy these past few days. Not like he was glad to be so. The weather alone prevented that.

Today had been smothering, all sun and no wind. The week before had been the exact same. At times he wants to strangle the idiots who decided that a dark almost-black brown was a good color for the gunslinger uniform.

By the time Corosa reaches the door of his own house, he is yawning and fighting a losing battle against sleep, and as a result is none too pleased to discover that the heat of the day has somehow caused the shape of his only key to twist and warp. Its shape has, in fact, changed so much to the point where it no longer fits in the padlock which serves to lock his door.

This will be trouble. He usually locks his door on the outside when heading out, and moves the padlock inside when returning home; if the key no longer fits, the door will remain locked from both inside and out. He does not want to shoot the lock apart, or the door off its hinges. Corosa is not one to waste money on repairs. His wife, on the other hand, had insisted on fixing every tiny wrong in the house. More than half his income had once gone to repairs. Now she was gone and he had not, in any way, inherited her need for perfection.

He has other ways of getting in.

He goes around to his back door. The key fits perfectly there.

"_You," _someone whispers.

He pauses, the door almost shut behind him, then sees that the window is open and it is only the sound of the curtains being blown around by the wind. He closes the window, absentmindedly thinking that he must be terribly tired if he managed to miss the fact that he could have climbed into the window while making his way to the back of the house.

That night, he goes to bed early. It _has_ been a hectic day.

He wakes up in the night to hear a banging noise and groggily remembers that he has forgotten to lock the back door shut. There must be a storm raging outside for the door to be making such a racket. There is no way he can go back to sleep with the song of wood crashing against wood in the background, so he drags himself out from the warmth and comfort of his bed, finds his keys, and goes on to find the back door, locking it shut. On the way back to his room the floor abruptly gives way, dropping, his foot going straight through with a _crunch._ This time Corosa does fall, and falls hard, twisting and almost spraining his ankle in the process for it is still stuck in the floor.

He winces as pain starts to prickle up his leg, stinging but not too serious. Gingerly, he presses his fingers around his caught foot and feels splinters. Then he feels around the edge of the hole he has stepped into. It is only a small hole. Grumbling about the builders and their quality of work, Corosa limps back to his room, lights up a candle and proceeds to pick the splinters out in the dim light. Because of the bad lighting it takes him a long while to finish, and he has to double-check to make sure that he has not missed any. The splinters may be small but the idea of infection does not appeal to him, and less the idea of limping to find a medic or healer of some sort.

When he blows the candle out there is a creak from the other end of the bed.

A creak, as if from the pressure of someone sitting down. Corosa assumes it is himself, though even in his irritation and exhaustion realizes uneasily that if the noise was caused by him, it was more than a few seconds too late.

When his eyes adjust to the darkness he sees a dark shadow on the other end of his bed.

Corosa yanks the sheets away and they come away as normal, quickly, smoothly, as if there is nothing on top of them. The shadow is gone but the feeling remains that _there is someone sitting on the edge of his bed_.

This night is a sleepless one and there are many candle stubs scattered at Corosa's feet by the morning.

And this morning takes a long time in coming.

When the sun arrives Corosa is alone, as he has been the whole night, the whole year, his whole life. For once, he meets the morning not knowing whether to be thankful of his solitude. That is, if he _is _in solitude as he desperately hopes. The rest of his house is silent and he bleakly wonders if that is enough confirmation that it is devoid of all other life.

Despite the reassuring sunlight now streaming in, Corosa does not dare move for a long time. He spends that long while staring at the door, wondering if he dare to open it.

He finally does. Nothing happens.

He recalls the original reason of his waking in the night and, after pulling on his clothes and strapping his gun holsters in place, goes to check in on the hole in his floor. It is in the same position where the crack once was yet it still takes his foggy mind a long while to make the connection. The crack and the hole, they are one and the same. Simply different versions of one another.

The hole is just big enough for his bare foot to slip into.

He must have widened it when he stepped on it.

This is the logical reason but it is not the right reason, for when he arrives back home that evening—once more through the back door, as the key is still warped and twisted, in fact moreso than before—the hole has widened some more, now enough for his foot to fit in even when wearing his slightly oversized boots.

Strange, but not unheard of. A crack in the wall was also wont to widen. It was the way these things worked. Corosa decided that if he kept forgetting to get the hole fixed, he would have to tattoo a reminder onto his hand.

He puts off sleep that night, preferring to thoroughly and religiously clean out his gun instead, and when that excuse has worn thin he moves on to cleaning and organizing his bullet cases, then messing them up and repeating the exercise all over. At least tomorrow he will not find himself fumbling in the middle of a job.

The wind is howling once more; he can hear it outside. At least this time, he dryly thinks to himself, at least _this _time he has remembered to lock his doors and windows. Speaking of doors, he also reminds himself to get a new key. The one he has always been using looks less like a key now and more like a...Corosa frowns, fingers playing around with the warped piece of iron, unable to think of an appropriate metaphor or simile. Regardless to say, the key is more circular than straight now and that alone says enough of its present state, let alone its present value. If it curls up any more Corosa will be able to stuff it into his gun and shoot it back out as a bullet.

Eventually Corosa's body decides it cannot stand another sleepless night and he goes to sleep right where he is.

Later that night he wakes up to the realization that there is someone sitting silently on the edge of his desk.

There are things that even the necessities and requirements of the body cannot overrule, and those are the things that fear demands.

Corosa spends the rest of the night staring in deep fascination at the tiny, flickering flames of his candles.

Throughout the night, he notes that there are more candle stubs being discarded than the night before. This night, he is lighting three candles at a time. His supply is almost gone by morning.

The next day he spends scouring nearby shops for any and every variety of candles he can get. They become piled up in his small study room, piled up on his desk like the walls of a castle. A fortress of potential light. It is further fortified by the light pouring in from the skylight above. The skylight is the only window in the whole cluttered room, far up above him. For all its size, _this_ is the point in Corosa's house where the ceiling is at its highest.

There he sits and waits out the night, counting down the slow hour-long seconds until the arrival of bright morning. In the meanwhile, he listens to _more_ than the steady _one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three _in his mind.

There is the howling of the storm that keeps coming back every night, yet is not there during the day.

There is the din of the neighbor's children, still up so late. They do not sleep, do they?—or perhaps it is just the storm again? Are there still children, still neighbors? In his mind's eye, Corosa vaguely recalls dusty doorsteps, hollow walls, cracked and smashed windows.

There is a creaking and snapping coming from his bedroom, loud enough for him to hear, and he imagines that it is the shadow taking residence on his bed where there is no candlelight, shunning the brightness of the flame alight in his study room. The flame, his guardian. In the dim light he almost allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes. That is too far, though. The most control he allows his body over his mind and will is to put his head in his arms and watch the candles burn away, one by one.

The light of morning proves his imagination wrong. The creaks and snaps of the night before are not that of his room, they are that of the widening hole in the hallway right outside the door.

It grows. It thrives. It is now big enough for him to fit in.

When he drops a candle stub down the gaping darkness, the sound of impact never comes.

He puts his hand down inside and feels a vicious wind, whirling like a tornado, sharp like the cut of a blade, and _utterly silent._

Corosa backs away.

He does not leave the house today. He cannot. The study room is a dead end; there are no other doors and there are no windows. And he is prevented from moving out by the hole in the floor outside his makeshift sanctuary. He sinks down into his chair and waits.

It is not even noon yet when he hears a ripping and tearing noise, a _roar _from just beyond the now-shut door.

Corosa scrambles to his feet and _vaults_ over the desk and hurls himself shoulder-first into it, slamming it shut as it begins to slam itself open.

As quickly as it had began the noise stops.

Despite this, Corosa is not reassured.

He wants to barricade the door but the nearest useful, heavy piece of furniture is beyond even_ his _arm's reach, and he cannot move. He knows that if he does, the door will open. It will open.

_Tick tock, tick tock._

Noon comes and goes. His arms and back begin to ache from holding himself up against the door so long.

_Tick tock, tick tock._

Evening arrives. There is less light coming in through the skylight.

_Tick tock, tick tock._

The sun has set and Corosa has not yet moved. The daylight is vanishing into night and if he does not pry himself away he will be lost in the darkness. And he knows that the shadow will come, he _knows _just as surely as he knows that if he moves from the door it will open.

He puts his back to his door and braces himself against it.

Once upon a time: _home now, darling?_


	2. The Road to Perdition

Tenshi came in second place. Ultimately, Sal (Cezaria) and I flipped a coin to decide the winner xD

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**The Road to Perdition by Tenshi (TenshiNoAkuma)**

Nithalya gritted her teeth as she drove her half-pike into a wraith's skull, breaking the throbbing red seal scratched into the back. The ghastly thing scraped at her shield before exploding into a bloodless pile of ash. But the wraith's fall would hardly make any difference to the swarming mass of undead pouring through the towering gates of Glastheim. The gated city's blackened metal ribs pointed to the sky where the crows circled warily. The forces of Geffen, bolstered by aid from Prontera, Al de Baran, Payon, every major city, were still horribly outnumbered. Nithalya couldn't take comfort in the hollow victories of every undead downed, not when there were hundreds, thousands more to take their place.

Garduc fought beside her, the maul he wielded smashing through any undead that dared to cross his path. Nithalya envied the crusader's ability to simply cleave his way through the undead; he was had been brought up to fight undead while she duelled living opponents. Garduc had often told her it was His Light that gave him the strength to smite the unholy beings. He radiated holy strength, perseverance and a will that was almost tangible. When he could destroy the undead before him with such grim authority, as if he was burning them to ashes with his light, Nithalya could almost believe they might make it out from this godforsaken land alive.

Until yet another of their brethren would fall.

"Fall back! Fall back!" The cry was taken up and echoed through the lines.

Even Garduc didn't complain. The foothills outside Glastheim were littered with their dead comrades as they were slowly pushed back towards Geffen. A grim shadow had passed over this land, the land where the downtrodden earth would drink the blood of the slain. Nithalya wanted to ask the crusader, _Where is your Light that will save us? Where is He when we need Him most?_

They couldn't even bring back their lost and loved ones; they were all given up to the undead like a bloody sacrifice to appease some sick god.

The living retreated, abandoning the dead while whispering hollow promises for vengeance. Soon, the circling crows would swoop down on the corpses, a grisly feast, and then the ash would slowly settle.

"…_Who are you?"_

_The cloaked one shifted his oak staff from one hand to the other. The twisted black feathers dangled from the gnarled wood like swinging bodies on the gallows. "I am one who has wandered this mortal plane in search of power."_

"_Then why do you come to us? We have none, for we would not be losing this battle if it were not so…"_

Nithalya wished the bridges leading to Geffen were made of wood; then she could burn them and be done with the undead plague. Although that would leave the magic city to starve to death inside its walls, at the moment, she preferred that to giving in to those foul creatures. In any case, the bridges' huge steel and concrete pylons and rust spotted chains could not be moved or destroyed without any cost. Any earth spell powerful enough to collapse the ground holding them would also send the island city tumbling into the River Styx encircling it. It was a pity, because the undead swarmed over the land, passing over it like a thundercloud's shadow. Only, unlike the shadow, the undead would not pass quickly.

She saw the monstrous undead army, larger than a plague. Onward they surged, abhorrent spawns of Glastheim, all swarming towards Geffen with weapons raised in a show of tireless power. Suddenly, the helmet upon her head felt like a cage, trapping her in this soldier's duty to stand and fight. But she had to fight. It was their duty to fight even if their enemy was something they couldn't win against, because if they didn't fight the undead, no one would.

Nithalya turned her gaze to the sky, not wanting to stare at the rows upon rows of the blackened skeletons. There was one lone cloud, a mere wisp of white almost snuffed out by the overwhelming blue. None of the birds, none of the sky petites roamed the air; only the black crows, circling like vultures. The vast emptiness of the sky felt unnatural to her, like it knew what was about to take place and had fled to safety. It was as if the heavens themselves could not bear to look upon Geffen and its hell-spawned guests.

She swapped the empty sky for hollow, staring eyes. Nithalya wanted to alleviate the tension with a laugh, but she couldn't muster anything more than dry twist of her mouth. Garduc slowly blinked and gave her a weary smile. He shifted the grip on his maul while Nithalya's gauntleted fingers tensed around her spear.

"Are you ready?" he whispered, wraith-like.

The undead were almost upon them.

A horn's reverberating tone penetrated the land. As if to signal their doom, the heavens split and meteorites from the wizards rained from the skies, burning the sky red in their fiery wake. They reminded Nithalya of stories of the Armageddon and Ragnarok; she always thought the heavens would be on fire when the world met its end.

Geffen's final front lines met the rush of the undead forces. Nithalya's half-pike found its mark in yet another skeletal seal, and the crusader beside her crushed another one's skull. But there were still more and more, hundreds and hundreds. The undead's numbers were just as endless as before. Nothing had changed except these were their last lines, their final battle ground.

She saw flashes of magic up on the walls and retaliation from the undead's own magicians. The earth before the wall heaved, as if it would split asunder and send all those doomed souls standing there tumbling into the fiery depths of hell. The darkness was momentarily repelled when light suddenly spread over part of the ground. Growing brighter, it rose up to the heavens, obliterating any undead in its path for the briefest, ephemeral moment. But then the heavens closed and the darkness returned, darker than ever. These weak, puny mortal magics weren't going to be enough to save them.

They needed something more.

"_I have seen your peoples' plight and come to you with an offer of a pittance of my power. I am offering you salvation, a means to defeat your enemy."_

Bird shadows trawled the ground like a torn net. The tattered banners of human life flapped forlornly in the weak wind. The multicoloured hues of Geffen's walls, dulled from the undead infestation, had blood splashed on its sides as an occultist's offering. Death cries were echoed by the circling crows in a dirge-like opera.

Nithalya wanted to scream, bestial, primal. Where was the Light that would save them? Where was that Light that could burn through the undead ranks with a line of holy fire? Why wouldn't He help them, His children in need?

Nithalya faced off yet another skeleton, its empty skull dull and emotionless. It couldn't express the emotions of the flesh, but even its fleshless mouth seemed to be laughing at her, laughing at her for believing in one who would not show His power.

"_What will your help cost us?"_

She wiped that smile off its face when she knocked the skull off its spine with her shield and crushed it under her heavy greaves. When she raised her head, though, there were thousands more of those grinning skulls. Rows upon rows of them laughed as they swarmed onward, unharmed under the broad light of day. Nithalya thrust her half-pike into the eye socket of another, breaking that unholy blood seal keeping them in the land of the living.

A battle cry from her left ripped through the air, a primal cry of defiance. She almost didn't realise such a bestial sound had come from the calm, collected crusader. Nithalya thought she knew him, but when she saw Garduc crush those walking bones with such vengeance, such fanaticism, she saw the light falter from its path.

They were losing themselves in this battle for their lives.

"_Nothing. All I ask for is the acceptance of my aid."_

The darkness and shadows were slowly choking, slowly strangling the light from the land. The bony skeletons were slowly drawing the noose around their necks with unwavering certainty. Nithalya was tempted to give in, to surrender herself into those grasping hands that would pull her through the earth into the abyss. She wanted to give her soul to the damned denizens of hell so she didn't need to feel this despair. She wanted to fight without consequence, without feeling the pain, to lay waste to all before her without feeling the bite of the dark.

But that reminded her too much of how the empty, soulless undead before her fought.

So she fought on with what mind she had left, her helmeted, harrowed face a living reflection of the hollow heads she battled. Garduc's maul smashed through his opponents, but even the holy aura he carried about him like a shield was beginning to flicker. Gone were the talks of Light, gone was the passion of the fight; all that remained were the heavy swings of his maul. He was not the only one of their number who fought with their emotions deadened to the havoc around them. The constant falls in battle and the relentless assault from the dead were taking their toll, until they almost forgot who they were. Their sunken faces were ghostly impersonations of their past lives. The living were fighting like the dead, and the dead surged on.

A loud, clear voice penetrated through the wall of apathy they had built around themselves. "We have a breach! Rally to me! Rally!"

"_Then we accept. May God have mercy on your soul if you are proven false."_

Nithalya heard the call taken up by others. Her fellow soldiers rushed to the breached wall like blood to a wound. She hoarsely took up the cry with her dry, cracked throat, hearing it slowly die in the echoes. The knuckles under her gauntlet bleached as she gripped her half-pike tighter to drive it into the skull of another skeleton. Nithalya slowly made her way to join the others swarming towards Geffen's open wound, her shield defiantly bearing bone white scratches on its surface. But when there was an absence of the light that fought beside her, she numbly realised the one who guided her with talks of hope was not beside her. The presence she had gotten so used to, the reason she had not fallen yet, was missing.

She turned to search for the flickering light in the overwhelming darkness…

…and saw him fall.

"_Do not fear. I swear to you in the holy name of the Light, your soldiers' lives will not be wasted."_

"Garduc!" she cried, breaking from the rush of her comrades-in-arms to run to him. Undead were surrounding her, their hollow eyes beckoning. Ash-grey they were, living ashes coming to choke the life from the world. Nithalya fought them off, drove them away from her fallen friend, but it was only a matter of time before she couldn't fight anymore. She would fall just like him, and dust and ashes would settle.

Garduc lay prone in the grass, looking like the broken statue of an angel pushed over in the Pronteran riots.

"Garduc! Come on, you holier than thou freaking _bastard_! Get up!" She could see the horrible gaping wound in his chest, blood welling up and weeping with every faint heartbeat until it had no more tears left to cry. "Goddamnit to hell, you can't be dead! You can't be!" She could feel droplets of water trickle down her dirty cheeks. The protection granted to him by the Light he swore by with such conviction had failed him. The armour he wore had not protected him and her own meagre bindings wouldn't protect her either. The helmets they wore, the righteous emblems upon their armour, they all meant nothing. She was a walking corpse on the road to perdition.

"Get up!" she screamed, throwing a final prayer to the unmerciful heavens.

As if some unholy god had heard her cry, Garduc's bloody body lurched to its feet, taking stumbling steps towards battle. The heavy bladed sword of a skeleton swung towards the reanimated Garduc. Nithalya saw in horror as a bony arm ripped itself through the crusader's armour and caught the sword. Contorting invisible muscles, the skeletal hand shattered the blade. Bile rose up to her throat as she saw more skeletal bones rip through Garduc's flesh and armour, shuddering while it fought, as if it was disposing of its undesirable fleshy restrains. Its hollow, empty skull tore through Garduc's holy visage and began to fight, fighting for life even though it had none. It made her sick to the stomach, watching the reanimated skeleton pick up Garduc's maul and wield the weapon as if it was its own. It radiated unholy might, doing what holy strength could not. Unable to keep her eyes on the abomination that had risen from her comrade's corpse, she turned her eyes to the rest of Geffen.

Wave upon wave of bleached white bones were slowly rising.

"God have mercy on us all," she whispered, the whisper of the living dead. Their slain were rising, rising and fighting once more.

They had become the very things they had fought against.

Many of her fellow soldiers, all enclosed too tightly within their emotionless cocoon, solemnly rejoiced at the turn in the battle. The white undead fought side by side with their living counterparts, slowly driving back the Glastheimian scourge. They had been offered a thin wire of uneasy hope and they grasped at it with worn, weary hands.

Nithalya wanted to destroy the abominations, wanted to take up Garduc's maul and smash them. Because she knew that even if they managed to fend off the Glastheim invasion, in the end, only the ashes and the charcoal crows would emerge victorious.

Nithalya didn't see the khalitzburg until it was too late. The monstrous undead's sword tore right through her pathetically weak shield and armour. The jagged tip of its sword looked like a spine, a bony spine that showed her how flimsy the living flesh was. Nithalya stumbled back a few steps, barely comprehending the blood pouring out of her ashen body. Her torn flesh, edges lacerated from the sword's jagged path, became a gaping maw spitting out her distasteful innards. Bleached-white bones protruded from the dark blood like crumbling chalk smeared on tar. She saw burning ashes and hanging flesh and circling crows before she fell to her knees to join the ranks of the fallen.

She thought Garduc's Light would show her the way, but the light was overshadowed by a grim skull staring down at her with hollow eyes.

"_Your sacrifice will not be in vain."_

Tellie's comments: I liked the imagery too :3

Sal's comments:

I must say you had me freaked a bit XD. But in this case it is a good thing since this is a horror story contest. Imageries were lovely, could really feel the desperation that was building up from the beginning until the latter parts of the story. I loved how the story has a pulse to it, a rhythm. There was only one part I felt that wasn't powerful enough, Garduc's skeleton ripping out through his flesh was freaky awesome. However I felt that Nithalya's reactions lacked the same impact the rest of the story had. But all in all, a good job done.


	3. Smile

**Smile by Min (Minane)**

---Number One

A priestess ran down the halls of her large stately house, her long glossy black hair flying behind her. Sweat beaded her forehead and she grabbed the wall to prevent her from collapsing. Frustration and fear crossed her face as she stopped for a split second and stared at her perfectly polished marble floor in a dazed state…

Maybe she needed some comfort. Professional comfort from a psychologist in fact, Mai decided, as she felt her emotions fighting to break out of her usually cool exterior. But then again, maybe it wouldn't help. Not now. Not after that _thing_.

The _thing_… it was adorable, really; big eyed, sweet, and able to freak the priestess out of her wits. It was really the little smile that did it. Most of those puppets had that blank and sweet little upturned line that gave you a kind of natural fondness for the lifeless imitation. Then you couldn't resist bringing it home and amusing yourself by playing around, and eventually the strings would snap and the original shape of the stringed doll would be deformed beyond recognization. The little poor puppet would then be thrown away, forgotten.

Not this doll. She had given her daughter the chance to buy something on her own. Yes, her little six year old girl who was so helpless and innocent, the blissfully ignorant look on her face.

Mai clenched her teeth. The father was gone; disappeared on a simple walk. Just when their child had reached her second birthday and she herself, happier than ever. She had never quite forgiven her love for that. Even if it wasn't his fault. Deep words etched in her mind repeated.

'_But dada say I was his special girl. Dada say that I was all he needed… why did he go away…? I thought he said!'_

That was what had sealed her grudge against her beloved into place, in truth. But that didn't matter currently. What mattered was her sweet daughter's life.

So, her daughter got the money. And, as expected, her first destination was the great fabulous toy store, chatting as they walked there all so much about all the wonderful things she would buy.

Mai bitterly smiled as she remembered the gigantic list that the short girl had been conjuring up like a typing machine, hoping p and down, unable to hold back her eagerness. She wished she had bought everything her daughter had named, no matter the cost. Wished that everything her daughter ever wanted was in her little soft baby hands.

Fuck, she wished this stupid, horrific thing had never happened in the first place, shall she say?

When they'd got to the brightly colored store, she had suggested numerous things: a stuffed animal, an inflatable ball, and maybe some key chains – there were so many choices that you could practically drown yourself in the color. Mai had a particular fondness in the poring plushies they had lined neatly on the white orderly shelves.

…Yet, in this wonderland of variety, her little girl had chosen the _thing_.

At first sight, a shiver had ran up her spine and the instantaneous urge to seal it away forever entered her mind. Yet, her daughter had stubbornly insisted. She said that it was the best puppet she'd ever seen, and that she liked its face, said that it was unique since it had two cool red highlights in the hair.

The only thing Mai could see about its face was that smile… terrible. It was not quite an expression, but more of a taunt. A dangerous taunt. _Dare you bring me home? Why don't you love me?_

In normal circumstances, the woman would have immediately pulled away the doll from her girls hands and kicked it aside, but the shining eyes and great anticipation of her little girl had anchored her heart in place and she handed in reluctantly, her money to the store clerk. She just noticed the suspicious glance that he gave the puppet. Another shiver filled her body.

Before she had tucked the sweet girl doll in her leather purse, she had heard a cautious suspicious voice behind her – the store clerk.

"Do you really want that doll?" he had asked.

She should have known what it meant. But, no. Her sense of reality had chained her down to an ignorant view of the possible and impossible. One glance at her daughter's shining eyes did the trick.

"Yes. I want this doll," she stated solidly, "I absolutely, positively want that doll." Then she ventured on curiously: "Why do you ask?"

The man shook his head, a strange lost look on his face.

"Forget it. Have a nice day."

And she left.

After her purchase of the doll, two weeks had passed in peace. Her suspicions had resided and her sense of relaxation had returned. But not for long.

Then the incidents began.

Day one, Monday morning, a person just living across her street was found, hanged. It was assumed as suicide – except for the part about all the limbs being cut off and stuffed into the fridge. She had felt disturbed and alert, forbidding her daughter to leave the house without company. Once, the little girl had come out to fetch her ball that just _happened _to fly out the window. Nothing had happened, but enough had happened as to frighten the priestess out of her wits

Then came day two; Tuesday afternoon, her daughters teacher had been found in the bushes, stabbed into gory pieces – a leg had been found hanging on the tree at their front yard. This was right after the afternoon when the poor scholar visited their home to talk of her daughter's wonderful conduct.

Mai had definitely gotten freaked out and immediately, with the sense of danger in her mind, began installing locks in her house entrances and informed her clueless daughter that any wandering outside would result in severe punishment – with or without company. She was careful as to inform families living near by that it was best they did the same.

They gave her conspicuous looks and whispered among themselves, probably deciding whether to heed her or to wave her off as a madman. In the end, two people listened to her.

Yet, that didn't stop day three. This time, tragedy closer to home. A close friend, in fact, her best friend from her college years, had been visiting them to show off her new baby, but it hadn't ended quite right. Quite right my ass, Mai thought. More like extremely messed up and definitely screwed. The most accurate description would be hell burning into ashes. The worst part was when she found out that the very danger she'd been running away from was being locked up in her house by herself.

The friend had gone outside to get a present for Mai that just seemed to be, almost coincidently, in her car. After ten minutes and her friend hadn't returned, she had gone outside. The image would forever be etched in her mind, centuries after her death.

On the fresh green grass, her friends body was lying limp, only knocked unconscious. Relatively fine. But not for long.

There was a strange metallic glint, lit by moonlight and a sick squished sound of something sharp slicing into something soft.

The grass seemed to absorb the gushing liquid, turning a crimson red. The woman could only stare, horror struck as the liquid substance lapped at her Mary Janes, staining the white cloth. At the moment, she was in pure hell. Then she saw the _thing_. Now she was beyond hell, into the very pits of fear.

A small arm length figure was standing, holding something. The first thing that struck her mind was the glint of the held object – a metallic glint. The second thing that had come was the familiar chilling smile. An evil taunt. Pure irony. _And so you dare?_

She had ran for it. Into the house, tried to lock the doors, windows, everything. Grabbed her daughter in her arms and hugged her tight in a corner of the house. Yet that hadn't helped. Suddenly, there had been a huge cracking sound and the windy air of outside entered the house.

The doll thing had broken down the door with its knife.

It came with its blood covered weapon and for the first time, Mai felt pure fright. Her daughter suddenly began shaking, confused, unsure of why her mother was so frightened – and then ran for it. The doll had diverted its attention from the woman and to the girl – her sweet daughter. Then it left, an evil glint in its beady black eyes. The priestess stared in wordless terror as it disappeared behind a door.

So now, that was why the Mai was freaked out. And in need of professional help. Console (as if it would help).

But not now. Now she had to find her daughter.

"Lina! Lina!" she screamed desperately as she dashed down the hallways, "Where are you!? Lina! Lina!?!"

Mai spun around as she heard a noise… a faint voice…

'_Dolly? What's wrong? You can walk? Wow!'_

The womans eyes widened in panic.

"No! Lina!"

She ran for it and a different voice grew louder as she got closer and closer and closer…

'_I love you sooo much… so much… so much…that I…'_

She yanked open a door, her hair falling around her disheveled face. Her eyes opened in horror. The doll was facing her, its knife coming down… and down… and down…

'_Can kill you…'_

Behind it, she could barely make out a bloody heap, an arm, a leg… _her daughter._

But then she could only see the smile. The evil taunt. Pure irony. Pure agony. Pure. Sick. Joy.

For a split second, she heard a scream – maybe her own. Then pain, and crimson red liquid everywhere. Mai felt her sanity begin to slip between her fingers as she stared in horror at the thick maroon liquid that was spilling on the floor, splashing on her feet like water. Then there was more numb senseless pain.

The floor seemed to be getting closer and closer – until she hit it. First, searing pain – then a shock like feeling.

… Everything was blank, but Mai didn't care. Everything was numb, pale and all she could hear was her own voice whispering in silent agony;

'Why is it so cold?'

-----

A figure paced impatiently down the sidewalk like a wind up soldier toy. Cars roared past it, but nobody seemed to notice it. Unfortunately. And fortunately.

It walked continuously, non stop, its cloth tap shoes clicking on the concrete sidewalk. Eventually, the thing reached a dark closed building. Displays of water guns, stuffed animals, and small mini houses were placed on shelves… – the toy store.

The thing, as it seems, a doll entered through the window and looked around the shelves of the store. It jumped on one of the shelves and pushed off a box. Then the thing took off the cover and threw another doll out – a Barbie. Then there was the earsplitting sound of plastic and cloth ripping. A plastic thud resounded throughout the hall as a leg fell on the ground. The doll grinned and tossed aside the limp armless Barbie, a permanent empty smile plastered on its face. Then it climbed into the box and pulled the cover on.

Time to wait.

----Mai

"_Ghost."_

The fear stricken priestess turned her head, eyes empty, before her brain restarted.

_Where was she?_

Shuffling to her knees, Mai stared at her hands and body; solid. There was no blood. Was she alive?... impossible. Feeling her own hands until she finally realized that she wasn't on the ground, lifeless, the woman dazingly turned her head to trace the voice.

_Oh my god._

A scream echoed in nowhere and the priestess lurched back in shock, only to lunge forward again as her shoulder brushed a lifeless lump behind her, one of the many that were hanging in the air.

Dolls. Marionettes. Everywhere.

Where the hell was she!?

"_You aren't alive."_

The voice… from where? But her thoughts went no further as she could only drown in fear at the beady eyes of each puppet that surrounded her – like an army of zombies in this endless land. It was like Niffelheim – except worse.

"Where is this?" she whispered, hazel eyes wide. She leaned both back and forward to keep away from the haunting dolls. When she turned her head, she could swear that she saw a glint; a metallic glint.

"_You are nowhere. However, that doesn't matter."_

Mai clenched her fists. "Then what matters?!"

A wind blew – oh wait, that couldn't be the wind. There was no air here.

"_Priestess… do you want to live?"_

A sudden shock surged through the woman's body and a flash went through her mind – her playing with her girl, her husband, the time when she first became an acolyte; each time she met a friend and went to a party; her murder. Even when police came to investigate her husband's disappearance. A sob racked Mai's throat.

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

"_Do you want to live though?"_

"First, where's Lina?"

Something close to a smirk filled the air.

"Dead too. However… she chose to live."

Eyes opened wide. "Lina's alive!? Where is she?!"_  
_

"_Here."_

Mai scanned the area. There was no little girl. No laughter, not even a body. Only the lifeless dolls that grinned hauntingly. Irony.

"I don't see her-"

"_Look again."_

"She's not-"

"_Think."_

Then realization struck her – cold cruel realization. The priestess breathed in and faced the dolls.

"Which one?! Lina?!"

A noise echoed from behind her and Mai spun around.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Mai felt like screaming. Her horrors, the cause of her death, before her; only it was her daughter.

A little girl doll, with the same ironic smile as her murderer was staring up at her. A knife was slung across its back.

"**Hi Mommy!!!"**

"Lina.."

The woman resisted the scream rolling up in her throat.

"**Lina really happy Mommy! Lina is alive! All she has to do is make anyone who buys her from the toy shop go away!"**

The doll swung around her knife at the airless substance surrounding them in a kill gesture, to show her meaning.

"**Can you come live with Lina? Lina loves Mommy!"**

Mai stared in a mixture of horror, grief, happiness, and disgust. Lina…. her daughter… a killer.

"_Here's your girl… so do you want to live?"_

Mai knew already. She didn't care how many people died. Her freedom was before her. What she felt was not life. This was a hell in her mind. Why couldn't all those other people find out how she felt? Just a taste… of eternity. And Lina. She would give anything for Lina.

But first…

"How many of these… dolls are they?"

"_Too many. Maybe two for each shop in the world."_

The priestess shivered before nodding. Maybe she should suffer hell than this.. but something inside her wouldn't let her die. It would rather have the gods wipe out the meaning of life than die.

"I want to live."

"_Heh."_

**End.**

Tellie's comments:

I always thought dolls were creepy.

Sal's comments:


	4. Untitled Since Sanny is a Bum :3

**Untitled Horror Story by Sanny-san (Critic from Hell)**

He awoke.

Robin-blue eyes snapping open. The swordsman was instantly alert. A jolt of pain shot through his arm as he reflexively reached for his sword, causing him to cry out. It felt as if his arm was on _fire_.

A quick glance around made him wish that was all it was.

His arm --- or what was left of it--- was fairly hacked to pieces. The sleeve of his uniform had been torn off, giving him a spectacular view of the ribbons of flesh and skin clung onto bone like tattered rags. Someone must've been having a hell of a time carefully stripping the meat off, for the paleness that poked out at various intervals was intact, supporting the red rags from hand to shoulder.

The swordsman stared at his arm, stunned. Injuries were nothing new to him, but the deliberate cruelty was something that he was less familiar with. Biting back a scream, he tried to grab his skinned right arm with his left, as if it would somehow help.

He didn't even _dare_ look at his left when nothing happened.

Though he had no recollection of standing up, the swordsman suddenly found himself leaning heavily against the wall. Pulling his gaze off his mangled limb, he stared downwards at the rest of his body. It was so horrible a sight he averted his eyes. Several diagonal gashes ran along his chest. In several places, he could see his ribs. He swore to the stars that the rickety mess seemed to tremble with every breath he took. It looked like it would give away any moment. A small part of his mind wondered why he wasn't bleeding to death, but his nose already held the answer. Strange, how the sickly sweet smell of his own burnt flesh made him hungry.

Then his sanity kicked in. Doubling over, the swordsman retched.

"…where…am…I…?"

It burned his throat simply to speak, but he felt as if he'd go insane if he remained silent. He had no memory of how he'd gotten here. All he knew was that "here" was the middle of a small, square room, the walls of the place were sterilely clean, save for the mess he had just made and a trail of blood, leading from a dark, poorly lit hallway. It was one of two exits, the other being a better lit, much more inviting hallway that faced the opposite direction.

Yet somehow, it felt far more ominous than the bloodied one.

The swordsman winced in pain as he rose to his feet. He needed to leave. Now. Though swordsmen were supposed to be a hardy breed, the injuries he'd suffered would have killed most ordinary men, and were sure to kill him in the near future.

Naked instinct and common sense told him that he'd come through the bloodied corridor. And whatever had sliced and diced him was probably somewhere in that general direction. Not wanting to wind up as sashimi, he opted to go down the horrid feeling hallway.

"After…all…" The swordsman rasped out, taking a slow step in that direction. "What's… the… worse… that… could-"

The blood-red hairs on the back of his neck sprung up. He could feel something from the corridor ahead. The bile in his mouth rose as he recognized the masses of flesh ahead---human parts in the walls. The worst part was that they were moving, beckoning to him.

He blinked. The gruesome wall-lining remained. "…shit…shit…shit…" he repeated, stumbling backwards, trying to return to the room he came from. He'd take his chances with the mystery sushi chef.

He wasn't _really_ afraid until he backed into a wall.

Mystified, the swordsman patted the smooth, solid hunk of stone that was once an archway. He had heard nothing to suggest that someone had suddenly blocked up the opening with a giant slab of rock, not to mention there hadn't been a giant slab of rock to move. Convinced that this was some kind of sick, sick nightmare, the swordsman tilted his head forward in preparation of ramming it against the wall.

CRACK 

Nope, not a nightmare.

"…_**FUCK**_"

His head throbbing with pain, the swordsman gave a lurch. No matter what it was he limped toward, it was the only path. Steeling his nerve, the swordsman plunged forward.

He barely progressed five steps before his nose began to bleed. Faintly, he could hear voices inside his head, calling to him. Darkness washed over his eyes for a moment, but he recovered quickly.

Convincing himself that his pains were from the self-inflicted injury, he trudged on. It wasn't hard to ignore the cries in his mind; in his dreams, he'd been hearing far more terrible ones since that day…

…die

The swordsman froze. One voice, far clearer then the rest, called out to him. Not from within his mind either, but rather, from behind. Hesitantly, he turned around. The image of a long dead friend stood before him, obviously dead. Maggots fell from her rotting jaw as his headache grew…

…die…die…die

His knees suddenly felt too weak to support his weight. The swordsman fell on his backside, trembling uncontrollably. Horrible as the image was, it took all his willpower to pry his eyes off the specter, to divert his gaze to the wall. Something along the panels of flesh caught his attention, a flash of movement. Something invisible seemed pierced his soul! And with it the thoughts of the dead and tortured!

Die…Die…Die…_Die_

Without thinking ---he no longer _could _think --- the swordsman reached out with his arms, crawling his way further down the corridor. The pain had been constantly growing, and now it had reached the point of maddening. He could feel the sins of others wash over his soul…

And it got worse, as the swordsman's own sins answered them. Like madmen, they fought throughout his psyche, tearing open his mind and rending his personality apart.

Die**Die**_Die_Die_Die_**DiE**dIed**iE**_DIe_DiE_DIe_**DIE**die**Die**_Die_Die_Die_**Die… **

Red foam frothed from his lips. The swordsman's head pulsed with the intrusive thoughts of others. Layer upon layer, their personas weighed upon his mind, until it felt as if his skull would crumble.

_**DIE **_

A moment of utter silence followed. Then, a lightning bolt seemed to explode in his head. Everything around him suddenly seemed so distant, so far away…

He awoke.

Blood-red eyes snapped open. There was no need to scan the surrounding area for threats. His senses told him there was nothing to fight. Nevertheless, he remained tense, his mind mulling over his latest nightmare.

Similar dreams had been plaguing him every night since his grisly adventure into the lowest levels of Lighthazen. Though the protagonist was always different, it was always set in the same white-washed room, the same flesh-strewn corridor, and the same torturous ordeal, from which none survived.

All of them had collapsed at some point or another down the hallway, their minds flayed to pieces. All of them had been absorbed into the wall, reanimated to a life worse than death. All of them began to dream, reliving all of their pains, their sufferings. These dreams they shared with the next foolish enough to enter the halls, dooming them to share their fate.

All but the swordsman.

He never found out how he had survived what he had dubbed the "Wall of Souls," nor could he clearly remember what he had seen in the depths of the biolabs. All he knew was that when he returned, he had become unrecognizable twisted in mind, body, and soul. No longer did cheerful optimism shine beneath his eyes. His innocent smile had given away to a predatory grin. The roundness of his face and body had transformed into sleeker, thinner edges, bound with the wiry toughness of wolf. An air of fury hung around him like a maelstrom, not as much intimidating others as daring them to step forward.

Hell, even his coloration had changed.

Closing his eyes, Cross Windsor thought back on that fateful day, the day he'd died a thousand times in the span of ten minutes. Had he truly survived? Was he really the same boy who'd walked into the hall? So many thoughts had pervaded his mind, so many dreams, that he wondered if perhaps one of them had taken root in the swordsman's body. Perhaps he was not truly Cross. Perhaps he was a dream of a dead man, with a desire to walk the world of the living once more.

Then again, perhaps he had simply gone mad.

The lord knight shook his head furiously. He was becoming appallingly philosophical of late. It wasn't something he would have done back then, and it shouldn't be something he'd do now. Dropping back onto his pillow, the lord knight shut his eyes and let the dreams if the dead carry him away…

Tellie's comments:

Short of the word limit but I'm a fan of gore :3 It's an interesting idea on Lighthalzen rather than using all of the ghosts.

Sal's comments:


End file.
